Cool, fresh, wet air wrapped around me as I stepped out onto the porch, the red screen door tapping gently closed behind me.
It smelled of wet, rain soaked flagstones sunk in concrete, of wet rich earth, of wet silky red dust in Oklahoma.
It smelled of deeply green grass that water's caressed and poured upon, of wet tree bark, of wet leaves and pine needles, of wet wood.
It smelled of rain on the ocean, a dark storm rolling in, and the grey, smoky coloured wind blowing a warning before the calm...
The scent of sweet, wet hay, of grasses blowing like a furry, multifaceted pelt in the wind on a volcanic earth field in Hawaii.
The smell of urgency, but also of peace; of the inevitable knowledge that things will be cleaned, gently, fiercely, completely, by the rain.
---------------------------------------
B-squared and I were so excited to be on this island. I'd never been before, and it was C's birthday, and we were SOOOO excited to come and spend it with her in such an incredible place.
You could hear and smell the ocean on the breeze everywhere, all the time here. Part of me felt as though I was arriving home; it was always that way for me around the ocean. Salt water, waves, the sea; it flowed through my veins.
Though a humid, breezy island wasn't my chosen climate-- I felt... stirrings of peace here. The tumultuous energies that I'd been fighting were finally resting for a while. I was to have a break, not an escape, but a time of inner calm at last.
The car pulled squishily up into the driveway. A large avocado tree, with fruits half the size of my head were laden on the ground beneath it's twirled branches.
The screen door banged shut, and three figures appeared.
"C!!!!", B-squared and I hollered, all three of us hopping to hug her at the same time. K and G walked over to the car... I'd heard a lot about them, but not met them before. C was very close with her brothers.
K grabbed B-squared's luggage and they followed him up the steps, C grabbing a bag as she held open the door and followed them inside.
I'd grabbed my lonely backpack, and suddenly found myself approaching the steps to the beach house and the solitary figure of G.
He was tall, broad-shouldered and his eyes seemed to glow in the evening light; circles of gold reflected in the warm lamps of the house.
He smiled at me and took my hand to help me up the steps with my heavy pack.
Warmth surged through my fingertips, I almost exclaimed aloud, I was so surprised at the energy of it; an instant connection, a feeling I'd not had in a long time; pure, warm electricity, a real zing and tingling feeling.
I stopped mid-step, right there, simply awed and I felt as though he was familiar. We were inches from each other, we'd never met each other before. I just searched his face, knowing that I was blushing and couldn't stop, knowing that it was silly to read so much into the touch of a hand, but I couldn't help it: it was instantaneous, completely true and real and big.
"Hi, nice to meet you," he said softly.
"Hi, yes, I've heard a lot about you. I love your sister, she's amazing."
He was still holding my hand; his palm was dry and warm, his hands large, strong and well proportioned, a little rough from diving and the salt water and island living. I could tell he was tan and dark, sandy brown-blonde from the light we were both standing in.
I couldn't in good conscience stand still any longer. We were, after all, loitering on the doorstep; something my grandmother would've considered quite unlucky.
I reached the top step as he held the door for me and giving my hand one small, but firm squeeze, he let go. I felt him pass me on the left, his hand lightly touching my shoulder to let me know he was there, as I bent down to remove my shoes.
Looking at the warm, laughing faces around me, all smiling and happy and relaxed and flushed, I was suddenly hit by how much I cared for these people; not just B, her daughter B and C, but for G and K too, because they were allowing us to stay with them. Welcoming us completely into the house they called home, and after-all, they really were a family there: two brothers and a sister sharing time and space, and they'd made room for the three of us.
C came tripping lightly over and I gave her an even bigger hug than the first one.
"Welcome to Hawaii!" she said cheerfully! I could see how happy she was to have us, and also how she'd been stressed about something too-- work, it turned out to be. It's very hard to work on the island if you're not a native... or at least to receive and retain benefits.
K scooted by us, grinning, to the fridge.
"Want a beer?" he said, winking at me.
"Sure, I'm just going to drop my pack off."
"It's the door at the end of the hall," C gestured warmly.
Walking down the hallway, I realized how tired I was. I slung my pack off, and stretched, arching my back and feeling my aching muscles release; lift and lighten after being compressed under the pack. I felt strangely lightheaded too.
Entering back into the living room, I again felt an overwhelming flow of gratitude; whether they knew it or not, these people were helping me deal with the pain I'd had back in CO. The discomfort and angst of navigating a relationship that was no longer clear, easy and comfortable; something that had become bent and frustrating, about technicalities, labels, freedom and white lies; all about him and nothing about me -- no commitment at all. Something that was gone beyond finding. Something that was already painfully past the beginning of it's end.
G came over and pressed a beer into my hand. His eyes were sparkling again; I didn't know eyes could really do that with light, but they were reflecting gold and crinkling at the edges as he smiled, and I could feel the warmth coming off of his and the rest of our bodies in the room. Everyone was sprawling on the couch, warm, tired and relaxed from a day of surfing, work and traveling.
He gestured to the foot of the couch; C, B, B and K were filling up the cushions, so we sank down facing them on the floor, sitting on the soft carpet and gazing up at them.
He wasn't sitting too close, but I could still feel the warmth, the tingle in my field that was affected as it came off of him in waves; he understood what I was feeling. He felt familiar and friendly, though we'd only met 5 minutes ago-- it felt like five weeks or more.
Listening half-heartedly to the conversation, I can barely remember what we talked about that first night; the plane, the colouring book little B and I shared, the funny people at the airport-- a lady digging in her guy's ear as though trying to exterminate something....
All I could focus on was how happy I was to see C, how open and courteous her brothers were, and how tomorrow, I was going to be back in the ocean.... and how the guy next to me seemed to understand exactly what I needed and gave it to me, without words.
After everyone decided the beer was the last step on the road to laying down and sleeping, I realized that G and I were still up, and seemingly not tired at all.
We stayed up for at least an hour afterwards: watching episodes of "Firefly," and enjoying the amazing connection that we both felt; not really needing to say much at all, just reveling in the amazing closeness, comfort, and above all, familiar feeling between us.
I had many more unbelievable adventures with that group of people on that trip. I'll never forget any of it; it started with magic, and I must say, none of us wanted to leave that island when the end of our time came.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How the hell G knew that I was hurting, confused and needing comfort, I'll never know, but he was instantly kind to me, instantly attentive, and I'll never forget the surge of warmth that came dancing down my fingertips into my body at that first touch.
Sometimes we find people who are beyond explanation; who have no purpose other than to open our eyes to something wonderful, brief and painfully bittersweet that we are desperately needing, though that may not be known at the time. These are the people who teach us about ourselves without even realizing it; a connection is made, understood and then afterwards it seems impossible... like a dream.
C is still one of my best and THE best friends I've ever known. We've been together through joyous occasions, heartbreak, crisis, tough decisions, tougher decisions, celebrations, excitations and all manner of terrible and splendid things.
Her brothers K and G are two of the most stupendously sweet guys I've ever met. K recently got married to a great girl. G and I still catch up occasionally and talk about wind, water and life.
B-squared are one of the coolest mother-daughter teams I have the privilege of knowing.
I'll never forget our time in Hawaii and all the incredible things we did and the feelings that swept over me.
Someday, maybe, I'll have the chance to experience such a time again; if I'm still lucky.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Golly, Gosh and WHOA NELLIE!
The birds were twittering sweetly as I stepped out into the light of morning. The sun was doing that movie style glow trick; a glittering golden orb, streaming and blinking brightly through the tree branches.
The wind was moving pleasantly over the grass. Squirrels were cutely chasing each other all around and up and over everything.
It was, in short... a borderline disgustingly hunky-dory and cheerful outside this morning.
Taking a sip of my coffee, and inhaling the faint smell of cinnamon, I began my trek down the steps; yesterday they'd been so icy that I'd almost fallen screaming "NYMPHODORA!" at the top of my lungs... that's what I get for re-reading Harry Potter.... today they were dry and again, creaking happily.
It was a gosh darn zippetty-DO-DAH-morning.
The kind that if you're cheerful too, is akin to stepping into a warm bathing glow of light and feeling as though kicking your heels, would not be out of place behavior.
I felt a lift: I won't lie. I'm a morning person.
Walking along and breathing in the cold 23 degrees Farenheit air I was suddenly struck by an old memory.
A memory of waking up in a room with wallpaper like a blue willow china pattern.
The wooden slats of shutters striped the sunlight as it was streaming through the windows. The smell of bacon and Folger's coffee and toast was wafting through the air, mingling with something slightly mustier... something more like a spicy perfume.
Opening my eyes fully, I could feel the warm, fragrant breeze fluttering the lacy curtains, dancing with the sunlight and swirling tiny dust particles like sand in a jar of water; gleaming.
The bed was soft; navy cotton sheets and down pillows and comforter; the smell of clean dust -- that's what the feathers smelled like.
Everything was warm, blue, happy and shining with sunlight.
"Goood MOOORNIIIIING!" came floating down the blue carpeted hallway to the back bedroom where I was stretching, trying to decide if it was worth getting out of the delicious cocoon I was curled up in.
THUMP THUMPITY THUMP-THUMP!
Three heads peeked around the corner. Two blond, one sandy brown.
The eldest head had a full shock of long, shiny, straight hair and bright blue eyes belonging to my cousin E (age 20). The slightly shorter, blond curly head, belonged to my cousin J (age 10), which left the sandy brown curls to be my cousin N (age 9).
All three faces were grinning at me (age 6) as I sleepily rubbed my eyes.
"How did I sleep in? When did you guys wake up?" I murmured. Usually N and I were a tie for first awake.
He and J and I, all slept in the room I was in; the boys in the other set of bunk beds. E had the larger guest room in the middle of the hall, because she was the eldest.
"We just got up to go to the bathroom. Beat you by about 3 minutes!" Stated N, bouncing into the room and jerking the covers off me good-naturedly.
"Hey!" I exclaimed, nudging him with my foot.
"Grandma says breakfast is ready," said J, excitedly but quietly.
"Hurry up! She's calling us again," responded E, rolling her eyes, but smiling just the same.
Bouncing out of bed, we all tumbled down the hall, half-racing, half laughing across the parkay floor of the living room and up the stairs into the kitchen.
"Doe, dee, doe, doe, dooooooe," sang Grandpa C softly, humming to himself between 'does' and shuffling his feet. He still had on his dark gray, navy piped pajamas and slippers.
"Oh goodness, you're ALWAYS singing the BREAD song!" chirped Grandma B fussily, frowning at the stark white head of her husband.
His eyes crinkled into a smile and he winked at us, before whistling and beginning again...
"DOOOE, DE DOOOOOE, DOOE, DOOOOOOOOOOE!" a slight vibrato making the louder singing that much more intense.
"OUT! Shoo! Out of the way! You're blocking the stove and I need to get the kids' breakfast on the table! OUT!" she clucked at him, smiling despite her irritation.
He sidled over to the end of the long counter, and grabbing the newspaper at the end of it, sank into a walnut-colored kitchen chair and disappeared behind the overlarge pages, humming all the while.
"Can I have some coffee?" asked E sweetly.
"Yes, it's fresh in the pot," she motioned to the back burner of the stove.
"CAN I have some TOO Gramma?" said N excitedly.
"You and J can have a tiny bit, but make sure it's mostly milk and sugar, or it'll stunt your growth," purred Grandma B smoothly. With flashing blue eyes, she began to gently stir the eggs in to a fluffy mixture of milk and butter.
SHUNK! Up came the toast, streaks of golden brown across the ivory slices of bread.
J fished out the hot pieces onto a plate, and slid two more into the toaster, clicking the lever down firmly.
N was staring over Grandma B's shoulder, watching her as she stirred the eggs, gently swaying from side to side, her shoulders slightly rounded, the skirt of her night gown gliding along with with her. She was humming in a delicate soprano; vibrato buzzing out of her gently, a light smile on her lips.
"H, E, would you please hand me the butter and the bacon?" she ordered politely.
Pulling open the icebox door with both hands, and nearly falling over in the process, smelling the cold, salty air that issued forth, I found the bacon packet and E reached for the butter dish. I reached onto my tip toes and slid the bacon onto the counter to the right of the stove, E scooting it further as she set down the butter dish, so it wouldn't slip onto the floor.
"Thank you girls! N! What're you doing with that milk carton! Be careful now," she cautioned loudly.
N was holding the milk nonchalantly by the handle, swinging it back and forth. He grabbed a glass out of the cupboard to the left of the fridge, and began pouring himself a healthy serving, a little too quickly. J stepped over and reaching for a second glass, tried to take the milk away from N before he was done topping off his.
"HEY! LEGGO!" N yelled at his brother.
"You're going to SPILL it, DUMMY!" J hollered back, they were elbowing each other fiercely, cheeks flushed and hair mussy as they fought over the carton, which was splooshing dangerously.
"BOYS! That's enough!" Grandma C barked, "Everyone over to the table. NOW!" she finished.
E walked ahead, her hair falling softly down her back, carrying the plates that had been set aside for the table. I bounced after her. Standing behind me, she helped me set one in front of Grandpa C before finishing up the rest of the place-settings.
N grabbed silverware with his right hand on his way over, walking very, very slowly so he wouldn't lose a drop of the milk he'd filled up to the very top rim of the glass he was holding tightly in his left. The surface area tension was like a large bubble at the top. Dropping the silverware carelessly onto the table, he gently and carefully set his milk down by the place next to mine.
"SIT!" commanded Grandma B.
Each of us slid into our seats. "C, we're about to eat, so please put away that paper, would you?" She said firmly.
"Yes Dear!" He said perkily back to her. She set a bowl of eggs, a plate of bacon, and a plate of toast onto the table, before reaching over to the counter to hand us each a small juice glass. Then she set the big glass pitcher of orange juice in front of E and sat down herself.
"Heads bowed," she began, and said a prayer, blessing the food and us alike. While she was solemnly reciting, I snook a peak at N, who was bouncing up and down in his chair he was so hungry, his eyes squinted, his hands together, but he couldn't sit still to save his life. J was sitting quietly, as was E, who took that moment to whisper to N,
"CALM DOWN!"
"All right everyone, let's eat!" said Grandpa C.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
This memory is one of the few I have where my cousins from both sides aren't all mixed up together.
J, N, and E are all from my dad's side of the family, and I can't honestly think of a childhood memory or holiday where we weren't all together.
When D, C and M were over, it made the grandkid number 7, and that doesn't include the friends and second cousins who would usually pop by.
We're all spread out now, but I love my cousins and I'm grateful to have grown up with them.
E is like my big sister, N and J and C my big brothers, D and I are 6 months apart (they dressed us like twins for a good while) and M will always feel like my baby sister.
I wouldn't be the person I am today without them!
The wind was moving pleasantly over the grass. Squirrels were cutely chasing each other all around and up and over everything.
It was, in short... a borderline disgustingly hunky-dory and cheerful outside this morning.
Taking a sip of my coffee, and inhaling the faint smell of cinnamon, I began my trek down the steps; yesterday they'd been so icy that I'd almost fallen screaming "NYMPHODORA!" at the top of my lungs... that's what I get for re-reading Harry Potter.... today they were dry and again, creaking happily.
It was a gosh darn zippetty-DO-DAH-morning.
The kind that if you're cheerful too, is akin to stepping into a warm bathing glow of light and feeling as though kicking your heels, would not be out of place behavior.
I felt a lift: I won't lie. I'm a morning person.
Walking along and breathing in the cold 23 degrees Farenheit air I was suddenly struck by an old memory.
A memory of waking up in a room with wallpaper like a blue willow china pattern.
The wooden slats of shutters striped the sunlight as it was streaming through the windows. The smell of bacon and Folger's coffee and toast was wafting through the air, mingling with something slightly mustier... something more like a spicy perfume.
Opening my eyes fully, I could feel the warm, fragrant breeze fluttering the lacy curtains, dancing with the sunlight and swirling tiny dust particles like sand in a jar of water; gleaming.
The bed was soft; navy cotton sheets and down pillows and comforter; the smell of clean dust -- that's what the feathers smelled like.
Everything was warm, blue, happy and shining with sunlight.
"Goood MOOORNIIIIING!" came floating down the blue carpeted hallway to the back bedroom where I was stretching, trying to decide if it was worth getting out of the delicious cocoon I was curled up in.
THUMP THUMPITY THUMP-THUMP!
Three heads peeked around the corner. Two blond, one sandy brown.
The eldest head had a full shock of long, shiny, straight hair and bright blue eyes belonging to my cousin E (age 20). The slightly shorter, blond curly head, belonged to my cousin J (age 10), which left the sandy brown curls to be my cousin N (age 9).
All three faces were grinning at me (age 6) as I sleepily rubbed my eyes.
"How did I sleep in? When did you guys wake up?" I murmured. Usually N and I were a tie for first awake.
He and J and I, all slept in the room I was in; the boys in the other set of bunk beds. E had the larger guest room in the middle of the hall, because she was the eldest.
"We just got up to go to the bathroom. Beat you by about 3 minutes!" Stated N, bouncing into the room and jerking the covers off me good-naturedly.
"Hey!" I exclaimed, nudging him with my foot.
"Grandma says breakfast is ready," said J, excitedly but quietly.
"Hurry up! She's calling us again," responded E, rolling her eyes, but smiling just the same.
Bouncing out of bed, we all tumbled down the hall, half-racing, half laughing across the parkay floor of the living room and up the stairs into the kitchen.
"Doe, dee, doe, doe, dooooooe," sang Grandpa C softly, humming to himself between 'does' and shuffling his feet. He still had on his dark gray, navy piped pajamas and slippers.
"Oh goodness, you're ALWAYS singing the BREAD song!" chirped Grandma B fussily, frowning at the stark white head of her husband.
His eyes crinkled into a smile and he winked at us, before whistling and beginning again...
"DOOOE, DE DOOOOOE, DOOE, DOOOOOOOOOOE!" a slight vibrato making the louder singing that much more intense.
"OUT! Shoo! Out of the way! You're blocking the stove and I need to get the kids' breakfast on the table! OUT!" she clucked at him, smiling despite her irritation.
He sidled over to the end of the long counter, and grabbing the newspaper at the end of it, sank into a walnut-colored kitchen chair and disappeared behind the overlarge pages, humming all the while.
"Can I have some coffee?" asked E sweetly.
"Yes, it's fresh in the pot," she motioned to the back burner of the stove.
"CAN I have some TOO Gramma?" said N excitedly.
"You and J can have a tiny bit, but make sure it's mostly milk and sugar, or it'll stunt your growth," purred Grandma B smoothly. With flashing blue eyes, she began to gently stir the eggs in to a fluffy mixture of milk and butter.
SHUNK! Up came the toast, streaks of golden brown across the ivory slices of bread.
J fished out the hot pieces onto a plate, and slid two more into the toaster, clicking the lever down firmly.
N was staring over Grandma B's shoulder, watching her as she stirred the eggs, gently swaying from side to side, her shoulders slightly rounded, the skirt of her night gown gliding along with with her. She was humming in a delicate soprano; vibrato buzzing out of her gently, a light smile on her lips.
"H, E, would you please hand me the butter and the bacon?" she ordered politely.
Pulling open the icebox door with both hands, and nearly falling over in the process, smelling the cold, salty air that issued forth, I found the bacon packet and E reached for the butter dish. I reached onto my tip toes and slid the bacon onto the counter to the right of the stove, E scooting it further as she set down the butter dish, so it wouldn't slip onto the floor.
"Thank you girls! N! What're you doing with that milk carton! Be careful now," she cautioned loudly.
N was holding the milk nonchalantly by the handle, swinging it back and forth. He grabbed a glass out of the cupboard to the left of the fridge, and began pouring himself a healthy serving, a little too quickly. J stepped over and reaching for a second glass, tried to take the milk away from N before he was done topping off his.
"HEY! LEGGO!" N yelled at his brother.
"You're going to SPILL it, DUMMY!" J hollered back, they were elbowing each other fiercely, cheeks flushed and hair mussy as they fought over the carton, which was splooshing dangerously.
"BOYS! That's enough!" Grandma C barked, "Everyone over to the table. NOW!" she finished.
E walked ahead, her hair falling softly down her back, carrying the plates that had been set aside for the table. I bounced after her. Standing behind me, she helped me set one in front of Grandpa C before finishing up the rest of the place-settings.
N grabbed silverware with his right hand on his way over, walking very, very slowly so he wouldn't lose a drop of the milk he'd filled up to the very top rim of the glass he was holding tightly in his left. The surface area tension was like a large bubble at the top. Dropping the silverware carelessly onto the table, he gently and carefully set his milk down by the place next to mine.
"SIT!" commanded Grandma B.
Each of us slid into our seats. "C, we're about to eat, so please put away that paper, would you?" She said firmly.
"Yes Dear!" He said perkily back to her. She set a bowl of eggs, a plate of bacon, and a plate of toast onto the table, before reaching over to the counter to hand us each a small juice glass. Then she set the big glass pitcher of orange juice in front of E and sat down herself.
"Heads bowed," she began, and said a prayer, blessing the food and us alike. While she was solemnly reciting, I snook a peak at N, who was bouncing up and down in his chair he was so hungry, his eyes squinted, his hands together, but he couldn't sit still to save his life. J was sitting quietly, as was E, who took that moment to whisper to N,
"CALM DOWN!"
"All right everyone, let's eat!" said Grandpa C.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
This memory is one of the few I have where my cousins from both sides aren't all mixed up together.
J, N, and E are all from my dad's side of the family, and I can't honestly think of a childhood memory or holiday where we weren't all together.
When D, C and M were over, it made the grandkid number 7, and that doesn't include the friends and second cousins who would usually pop by.
We're all spread out now, but I love my cousins and I'm grateful to have grown up with them.
E is like my big sister, N and J and C my big brothers, D and I are 6 months apart (they dressed us like twins for a good while) and M will always feel like my baby sister.
I wouldn't be the person I am today without them!
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Someday.... wait, is that really Sunday, and I've been pronouncing it incorrectly?
Swish, swirly, swirl, swish, chugga-lugga-lug-squeeeaky-vrooommmmm..... quoth the washing machine.
BAM-BAM-BAM-bouncy-bounce-BAM-Bouncy-bounce... spake the drier.
BrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRrrrrrrssssssshhhhhhhhhhh... stated the dish washer.
The appliances in my house are communicating with one another and I fear it might constitute the end of me... perhaps they're going to go on strike for fairer treatment...
Maybe I shouldn't have threatened the drier the last time it ate a hole in four of my shirts.... but it's still new really (less than 2 years old) so it shouldn't be chomping down just yet...
Of the household chores, the three I least enjoy, are:
1. Taking out the garbage and recycling to the big bins out behind the house.
2. Scraping the food gunk out of the stopper in the left side of the sink.
3. Emptying the litter box.
Someday, if I get pregnant, the books, doctors and other pregnant women I know, have all said that I won't have to do the last one, because of something called "toxoplasmosis," which is a microscopic parasite that can be harmful to humans.
It is found in the feces of animals who have eaten a rodent infected with the little buggers.
I have read about it, and decided the risk is quite low for us, seeing as how we don't release the lions outside, but hey, if it's safer for J to do it than me (in the interest of the hypothetical BABY of course) they why the heck not?
Well, WOOT on THAT one. Someday...
I could continue on about the lovely mundane chores I perform regularly, but for now, let's just leave it for now.
I was thinking about "someday," while listening to the gurgling, thumping and whooshing sounds emanating from my kitchen (though the washer and dryer aren't technically resident therein, they are in a small closet-type space next to the oven, and really, are part of the kitchen as we never close that door, due to the cats enjoying their warmth and box) and truly wondering what we as humans mean by it.
Most of us begin with something like:
Someday, I'll quit this job and do what I want to do.
Someday I'll be a famous fill in the .
Someday I'll learn self-defense martial arts.
Someday I'll be able to afford x, y and z.
Someday I'll stop worrying and start living.
Someday I'll be fit as a fiddle, instead of mushy round' the middle.
Someday I'll learn how to play a musical instrument, program the VCR, change a tire, etc. as in someday I'll finish that book I never started, that symphony I can hear in my head, that painting I see behind my eyes, that dish I've always longed to learn to cook...
Someday holds a lot.
It can be an excuse for not finding the courage and bravery to try or do something that has always been out of one's grasp; usually, something inspiring or happiness holding.
Someday, I'll have children... and a dog... and horses... and a farm... and a completely different life than what I have right now.
I think everyone is guilty of a box in the back of their mind, holding a complex system of files under the umbrella heading of "SOMEDAY."
When though, does "someday," become "today," and then "yesterday," and then a longing, regretful, it's-too-late thought?
Everyone is aware of the sentiment of "Carpe Diem," which means to seize the day, or in effect, the now, this moment, for oneself.
Waiting usually doesn't get things done.
Most folks, can't afford this cavalier attitude... or so they say.
I am 28 years of age. This year I will be 29. Next year, if all goes according to J and my plans, we'll be married 6 months before I turn 30.
By some people's measure, we are "late starters," and this isn't a real source of stress for us, but J often remarks upon the fact that he wished we'd met 5 years ago instead of 2, and that he'd finished school when he was 28 or so, instead of working through it now at 32.
I just tell him that we aren't the same people we were at 23 and 27, and things probably wouldn't have worked out so nicely for us. :-)
After all, despite the fact that I thought "someday," I'd want to have kids, I maintained the belief that I was going to marry the right person for me, and it doesn't matter if I'm 90 years old when I finally find the fellow I want to hitch my wagon to.
Luckily, I found him a little over two years ago; hence the upcoming nuptials... which we're doing not out of any religious significance, but because we think it's safer if one's going to bring kids into the mix.
Honestly, we live together, we have joint checking... we're kinda' already married in spirit.
Moving on...
Someday is TODAY according to my great-grandmother.
Don't do anything that doesn't feel right in your gut, but for Pete's sake (I don't know who Pete is, but apparently he's in danger) don't put off til' tomorrow what would make you happy today!
I'd like you all to know that I modified that statement from Bompie's original (she was my G.G. on my mom's side) which reads: Don't put off til' tomorrow what you can do today.
I don't know when someday is, but J and I are trying to live with the idea that today is the day too. When he or I leave the house, or when we part ways for a time, we always kiss and hug each other good bye.
And I don't mean a lil' peck on the cheek. I mean a real goodbye, or for those of you who are familiar with the world of musical theatre, an 'Oklahoma hello!'
You never know.
Phantom busses can appear out of nowhere and one of us may not make it home.
I don't really know about what to say concerning "someday." What I do know, is that J and I are trying to put our priorities in order.
We have chickens; we're that much closer to a little farm in the country.
I work for myself; my stress levels and food allergies are easier to manage.
We've set up savings accounts to do things such as; restore a 1942 Chevy truck, purchase our wedding bands, ready for a rainy day...
Life isn't easy. Life can be scary. I don't want to make sacrifices for someday. Planning is good, but it has to be active and not plain ole' wishful thinking.
Now I'm just being redundant and rambling. Time to stop for today.
Besides... the appliances are all about to buzz together to see which machine has the most of my trust before they plan their coup...
BAM-BAM-BAM-bouncy-bounce-BAM-Bouncy-bounce... spake the drier.
BrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRrrrrrrssssssshhhhhhhhhhh... stated the dish washer.
The appliances in my house are communicating with one another and I fear it might constitute the end of me... perhaps they're going to go on strike for fairer treatment...
Maybe I shouldn't have threatened the drier the last time it ate a hole in four of my shirts.... but it's still new really (less than 2 years old) so it shouldn't be chomping down just yet...
Of the household chores, the three I least enjoy, are:
1. Taking out the garbage and recycling to the big bins out behind the house.
2. Scraping the food gunk out of the stopper in the left side of the sink.
3. Emptying the litter box.
Someday, if I get pregnant, the books, doctors and other pregnant women I know, have all said that I won't have to do the last one, because of something called "toxoplasmosis," which is a microscopic parasite that can be harmful to humans.
It is found in the feces of animals who have eaten a rodent infected with the little buggers.
I have read about it, and decided the risk is quite low for us, seeing as how we don't release the lions outside, but hey, if it's safer for J to do it than me (in the interest of the hypothetical BABY of course) they why the heck not?
Well, WOOT on THAT one. Someday...
I could continue on about the lovely mundane chores I perform regularly, but for now, let's just leave it for now.
I was thinking about "someday," while listening to the gurgling, thumping and whooshing sounds emanating from my kitchen (though the washer and dryer aren't technically resident therein, they are in a small closet-type space next to the oven, and really, are part of the kitchen as we never close that door, due to the cats enjoying their warmth and box) and truly wondering what we as humans mean by it.
Most of us begin with something like:
Someday, I'll quit this job and do what I want to do.
Someday I'll be a famous fill in the .
Someday I'll learn self-defense martial arts.
Someday I'll be able to afford x, y and z.
Someday I'll stop worrying and start living.
Someday I'll be fit as a fiddle, instead of mushy round' the middle.
Someday I'll learn how to play a musical instrument, program the VCR, change a tire, etc. as in someday I'll finish that book I never started, that symphony I can hear in my head, that painting I see behind my eyes, that dish I've always longed to learn to cook...
Someday holds a lot.
It can be an excuse for not finding the courage and bravery to try or do something that has always been out of one's grasp; usually, something inspiring or happiness holding.
Someday, I'll have children... and a dog... and horses... and a farm... and a completely different life than what I have right now.
I think everyone is guilty of a box in the back of their mind, holding a complex system of files under the umbrella heading of "SOMEDAY."
When though, does "someday," become "today," and then "yesterday," and then a longing, regretful, it's-too-late thought?
Everyone is aware of the sentiment of "Carpe Diem," which means to seize the day, or in effect, the now, this moment, for oneself.
Waiting usually doesn't get things done.
Most folks, can't afford this cavalier attitude... or so they say.
I am 28 years of age. This year I will be 29. Next year, if all goes according to J and my plans, we'll be married 6 months before I turn 30.
By some people's measure, we are "late starters," and this isn't a real source of stress for us, but J often remarks upon the fact that he wished we'd met 5 years ago instead of 2, and that he'd finished school when he was 28 or so, instead of working through it now at 32.
I just tell him that we aren't the same people we were at 23 and 27, and things probably wouldn't have worked out so nicely for us. :-)
After all, despite the fact that I thought "someday," I'd want to have kids, I maintained the belief that I was going to marry the right person for me, and it doesn't matter if I'm 90 years old when I finally find the fellow I want to hitch my wagon to.
Luckily, I found him a little over two years ago; hence the upcoming nuptials... which we're doing not out of any religious significance, but because we think it's safer if one's going to bring kids into the mix.
Honestly, we live together, we have joint checking... we're kinda' already married in spirit.
Moving on...
Someday is TODAY according to my great-grandmother.
Don't do anything that doesn't feel right in your gut, but for Pete's sake (I don't know who Pete is, but apparently he's in danger) don't put off til' tomorrow what would make you happy today!
I'd like you all to know that I modified that statement from Bompie's original (she was my G.G. on my mom's side) which reads: Don't put off til' tomorrow what you can do today.
I don't know when someday is, but J and I are trying to live with the idea that today is the day too. When he or I leave the house, or when we part ways for a time, we always kiss and hug each other good bye.
And I don't mean a lil' peck on the cheek. I mean a real goodbye, or for those of you who are familiar with the world of musical theatre, an 'Oklahoma hello!'
You never know.
Phantom busses can appear out of nowhere and one of us may not make it home.
I don't really know about what to say concerning "someday." What I do know, is that J and I are trying to put our priorities in order.
We have chickens; we're that much closer to a little farm in the country.
I work for myself; my stress levels and food allergies are easier to manage.
We've set up savings accounts to do things such as; restore a 1942 Chevy truck, purchase our wedding bands, ready for a rainy day...
Life isn't easy. Life can be scary. I don't want to make sacrifices for someday. Planning is good, but it has to be active and not plain ole' wishful thinking.
Now I'm just being redundant and rambling. Time to stop for today.
Besides... the appliances are all about to buzz together to see which machine has the most of my trust before they plan their coup...
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Winter Over the Ocean...
I closed my eyes and took a slow, deep breath in. Sinking onto the porch swing, I was startled at how clear and swirling the air felt this morning.
WhoooooOOOOOOSHHHHH, creak, creeeeak-tic-tic-tic...
The trees bent and stretched in the wind; practicing the yoga of ages flown past.
The air was really crisp and fresh, almost salty. The same smell you find in Nantucket or New Hampshire when you're on a boat, far out, in cold weather.
The air was.... unpredictable.
As though Marry Poppins could come floating by with her carpet bag and her umbrella. As though something out of a children's movie could come sweeping in a rush down the street, leaving behind icy-blue sparkles and freezing time in it's wake.
It was the sort of outdoor feeling that you get gazing up at a night winter sky.... stars glowing as though they really had footlights and fresnels time-set and flickering on and off behind them.
There was... magic in the air... and it was broad daylight...
In books, when a character is overexcited or usually, scared, they "half-expect," to see something, or for something to happen that would complete their picture of fear or wonder. That's how I felt this morning... I wouldn't have been surprised to see Terry Pratchett mosey down the sidewalk in front of my house, or for a large, huge draft horse to come pawing at my screen door, his front end with barely enough room to fit under the porch... or for a Phoenix to come swooping to my kitchen window.
I absolutely LOVE moments like this. Small snatches of seconds that one feels anything at all is completely and entirely and probably possible.
I remember a feeling I had once in high-school, I'd just finished a french exam with S.B. (an AWESOME teacher) and I felt so wonderful and light, that I quite literally skipped out of the classroom and paused, my soul humming with energy as I seriously considered the consequences I would face if I decided to follow my sudden impulse to hand-spring and backflip up and down the hall... I felt such a delightful rush and the muscle, bone, body knowledge that yes, at that moment, I could without a doubt be able to flip my way entirely down the hall and not hit anybody... just as I had my books thrown down and my hands in the air, a teacher popped out of a classroom.
I stopped, my hands straight up over my head, and looking up, met her raised eyebrows with a smile.
"Just stretching," I said cheerfully. She glanced at my left foot in front of my right, my hands a little to uniform (damn gymnastics) and blinked, as if to say "Yeah right, this is a new one," and with the deeply tired sigh of someone who has to be around pesky teenagers all day, turned and walked away from me down the hall.
Oh well...
I had a dance professor once talk to me about the knowledge some little kids have. They just know they can do something, and they really can. They've perhaps never done a cartwheel, but they just decide to do it, after seeing someone else do it, and poof! They can do it too.
I was one of those kids. Anything to do with me moving my body-- dance and cartwheels and flips, I had no fear... unless heights were involved... had to be careful when you were above the ground. I lost that ability to relaxedly and confidently "do stuff," somewhere around age 11. Reality set in, and I learned I could get hurt if I messed up.
Oh to have no fear and complete body knowledge again...
Time takes a lot of those magical powers away from you. Most people wouldn't even attempt a somersault, let alone a cart-wheel, past their teenage years, and it's a pity. Falling and rolling around on the grass is one of the great joys of life--- it doesn't matter if your legs and arms don't respond the way they used to, and are no longer made of rubber as they were when you were small. It's about moving in your own space and body and enjoying the little lift and exhilaration that occurs when you step out of your safety zone.
I wish I felt that way all the time. But then, I probably wouldn't appreciate it... or I'd just get arrested for doing backflips in public places...
I'm trying to recommit to some of those things I loved when I was younger. To enjoy the sensations of movement in my body, even if the only dancing I have time for that day, is while I'm cooking (it's impossible for me to stir anything - pan, pot - without standing on one foot and rolling my hips. It got pointed out to me by a frisbee friend (D.S.) once when we were making butternut-squash soup together, and I have to admit, I'd never noticed it before) or doing mundanely normal things around the house.
I don't move like a "normal person," according to J. He always tells me that for some reason, I have to dance around when I do things... he likes it, finds it cute and attractive. I'm just glad he's tolerant of me tap dancing as I wait in the check-out line of the grocery, or when I suddenly decide to skip through a parking lot, or pirouetting as I bring a mixing bowl down from the shelf with an arabesque to set it on the counter. I can't stop doing it (just as when I find myself singing or humming and I didn't remember starting) so I'm just thankful he accepts it and finds it somewhat endearing.
I'm sure someday, if we have kids, it will embarrass them to pieces when they have friends over. I've accepted this. I don't care. It's more fun than "moving like a normal person," and I really have no control over it, so dammit, I'm going to enjoy it.
I just find joy in movement and music. I always have. I'm a cheerful person! I like to wake up early and stay up late and nap through the heat of the afternoon.
My friends and family often comment on how annoyingly pleasant I am most of the time. It means that when I'm upset, or find myself slipping into a negative mood, it's that much more of a contrast, and that much harder for the people I love to be around me.
People I've just met, who've had to call me for one reason or another, frequently comment on the answering message on my cell phone. They say things like,
"I've never heard a more cheerful and pleasant happy greeting! It's so... you!"
It's true. My voicemail is cheerful, optimistic and warm. I try to make sure it's always that way when I re-record it. I feel that's the best representation of how I want to be spoken to and treated, so why not?
I'm not saying I'm a gosh-darn Disney-Princess-Cheery-Sickeningly-Sweet-Saint or anything... I just try to stay optimistic, happy and ready to roll with the punches most of the time. Everyone in the world has bad days, bad moods, and gets upset occasionally. Nobody's perfect and I fail a lot, but I try not to get down on myself (I'm very self-judgmental and at times self-deprecating, which sucks) to the point where it ruins my day.
Life's too short for that.
This morning, I took a sip of my tea and breathed in again, more deeply than before.
Yes. It smells like chance out here. Like infinite possibility.
The same smell as winter, rolling out over the ocean. Whenever I miss the water (if CO had the sea, I would probably never leave) I remind myself that the wind currents are just like the water currents. We live in a sea of atmosphere, and imagining the enormous ocean of air, the sky a mirror of the wet blue beneath, is comforting.
Tides will rise and fall, flow in and out. Waves will continuously sculpt the sand beneath, and the whales will sing their souls to the deep...
Anything and everything really, truly, is possible.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Chocolate Cherry Cake...
"You've got to clean that G.D. FAN!" Mum stated sternly, glaring at the thin layer of dust on the ceiling fan above.
We were all sitting in the kitchen, perhaps the better (or worse, in my case) for wine; my paltry 1/4 of a glass on par with everyone else's start of their second.
"Well, let me put it simply and plainly: I just haven't gotten around to it. SO there! ," I smirked back at her, jumping right into the skin I wore as a teenager. Never mind that she's soon to be 67 and I'm 28: we still have difficulties keeping our adult pants on around one-another.
"What? What?!" bellowed my Dad, looking around innocently; his hearing aids were conveniently sitting on the dresser in the back bedroom.
"I SAID, SHE NEEDS TO CLEAN THE FAN. DAMMIT, WHY AREN'T YOUR HEARING AIDS IN?! You're doing this on purpose," my mother said dismissively, waving her hand at him.
Dad just gave her his trademark devilishly-toothy grin and stared at her with his eyes scrunched up.
He was, after all, pleased with himself for pissing her off.
J and I just looked meaningfully at each other, and completely failed at not laughing.
This is how my family works. We love each other, we pass judgement in a kindly way, and sweetly tell each other what we think someone should be doing, because that's what folks who love you do: boss you the heck around. (Hopefully J and I can change this tradition with our kiddos, but you never know....)
When I was little, my parents were amazing. They still are now, but as most everyone knows, there comes that time in a person's life, when their parents go from amazing to horrible, right in the middle. Usually it happens when a person becomes a teenager; all of a sudden, parents don't know as much as you thought they did. After all, no one tells kids or parents that there's no 'automatic knowing,' system to raising children or parenting.
I grew up in a large family. I say that, because though I don't technically have blood siblings, I still grew up with my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, great-aunts, great-uncles, second cousins and so forth, all around me.
You know that old adage, "It takes a village to raise a child?" Well, it's completely, utterly and complicatedly true in my opinion.
Getting back to what I was saying about this droop in the early beginnings of adult-hood in parental intelligence... or so it seems....
When I was 16, I had my first date. I asked him out. He was older than me. In fact, he was almost 18, and in the land of teenagers, there are miles between ages 16 and 18. Rivers, valleys and mountains too. However, I liked him, quite a lot. He was a theatre techie and we'd worked together on sets, lights - you name it. Late nights amongst amiable company make for swift ties in the theatre.
I'd been so terribly nervous to ask him out... I didn't even have his phone number and being as we were two grades apart (he a junior and myself a freshman... I have a November birthday which put me as the eldest in my grade, and he had a December birthday, so likewise for him) that day at school, I'd agonized over how to ask him.
It's not as though we had a free band or lunch together, let alone sometime for me to get him by himself to ask him to be my date.
We'd finished rehearsal and I was waiting to get picked up. I remember it was dark outside. I'd stayed later to do my homework in the library after we'd left the theatre; my dad was working late, and he was the one who was coming to get me.
I had this boy's his e-mail, because of theatre related things. I decided to e-mail him... he was a techie, he'd approve of that. I grabbed my bag and walked over to the computer lab.
Breeeeeaaaatheeee.... I'd been holding my breath. Can I really do this? I thought to myself. What if he thinks I'm a joke or something.... what if he just laughs at me? What if I'm too forward, asking him out instead of waiting for him to ask me? What if he tells all his friends about it and I get teased for the next two years straight?
I'd asked people out twice before. Once in 7th grade (horrible, horrible mistake) and once in 8th grade (he said yes to attending dance, but then wouldn't dance with me once we got there. It ended with me basically breaking his heart and asking to be friends because, well he wore the same cologne as my grandpa, he refused to dance and we just weren't getting anywhere). So, I had a classically 50/50 success rate.
Yes, I was that girl. To be honest, I didn't really care that I was the one being assertive; let's face it, if things got left up to boys who were my age, we'd all be punching the person we liked in the arm and telling them they had cooties to get the message across.
A.B. was older and *gasp* more mature than most guys, 17 year olds included. Yes, I'd e-mail him.... I waited for the computer to boot up.
Finally.
I logged in with my student ID and signed into my e-mail.
"Dear A.B.".... I began.
TAP, TAPPITY, TAP-TAP. KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK. I turned to look at whoever was annoyingly drumming on the glass of the computer lab; the end of the wall was the windowed-hallway in front of our school office-- and all the air left my lungs.
A.B. stood there grinning and waving at me, his bag slung to one shoulder.
OH. MY. GOD...! I thought to myself, having a completely girly moment and blushing from head to toe. Waving back at him I smiled sheepishly, in what I'm sure looked like an agonized manner. He's so tall. He looks so cute. He's SOOOOOO going to turn me down...
"Thank God he doesn't know what I'm doing," I said aloud through my smiling teeth. A.B. winked at me and mouthed "See you Monday," on the other side of the glass before turning and continuing out.
I let the air escape from my lungs. I'd been holding it again. Well, it's my birthday and he knows that, so maybe he won't shut me down on my birthday.
I finished the e-mail and pressed "send."
Well, it was done. There's no "unsend," button, so now it was a wait and see sort of thing. Besides, tomorrow I was having some friends over for my birthday. A bunch of high-school girls eating ice-cream and chocolate would help me forget that I'd just asked an upperclassman out.
For the dance. A big one. A formal. Called: The Crystal Ball.
I didn't much care for the name, but you know, nothing wrong with puns...
RIIIIING, RIIIIIIING, RIIIIING!!!
"H! PHONE! It's a BOY!" My dad shouted up the stairs. Giggling ensued madly.
"SHUT UP! He doesn't know you're all over here. NO LAUGHING! QUIET!" I screeched as I made my way over to the phone upstairs in my dad's office. I could barely reach the receiver as I was surrounded by my friends and they were all hysterical that I'd a) Asked A.B. out, b) Given him my phone number to receive his response, and c) That he was calling the night they were all here to bear-witness and able to console or celebrate with me after the verdict was stated.
"Hello?" I said, trying not to sound as though my heart was going to beat out of my chest.
"H? It's A.B." he said smoothly. His voice was so deep.
"Well, I figured." I said giggling in spite of myself. It's not like many boys call this number... ooh, did that sound snotty? CRAP!!!!!
"I got your e-mail..." he said. I detected a hint of a smile in his voice. Ok. Don't sound eager....
"Yeah? I hope it was okay that I sent it to you...." I said quietly. A giggle threatened to escape from several of the girls squeezed against me and the receiver.
"H, I'd love go to the dance with you," he said. OH HOLY HELL! He emphasized the word "love," he'd LOVE to go with me! YESSSSS!!!
Placing my hand over the receiver, I realized that all my girlfriends were staring at me bug-eyed with lolling expressions, hopping from one foot to the other; like true friends, they were just as excited as I was to find out whether he shot me down or not.
He said YES! I mouthed to them. It was too much. SQUEALS ensued. WOOHOOO's erupted from the girls, and despite my hand over the receiver, I KNEW he'd heard the symphony of whooping in the background.
"A.B.?," I could hear him chuckling. Well, if he'd thought he had no audience, now he knew.
"Yes. You have friends over don't you? Birthday right?"
"Yeah. So-- hold on---," I paused.
OK EVERYONE! Go downstairs and start the movie, I'll be down in a minute.
"Sorry about that," I murmured, "Um...."
"Well, since the dance is in February, and it's November now... we should hang out before then, huh?" he crooned.
"Sure!" I said brightly.
"We should also probably talk about the age difference between us. What do you think about it?" he asked seriously.
"I don't think it's an issue at all. If people don't like it, well, it's not their problem really, is it?" I countered.
"I feel the same way. It's no big deal," he said warmly.
"Great," I breathed back at him. God, I was turning into such a girly-girl. Ugh.
"Well, why don't we hang out tomorrow night? I've got to cover a SLAM poetry gathering in Burlington, would you like to come with me?" he offered.
"Yeah, that sounds great," I said.
"Super. It's a date then. Have a fun night," he said... there was that smile I could hear in his words again...
"Ok. Bye A.B. Thanks for calling," I said softly.
"Thanks for asking," he purred back. We hung up and I steeled myself to go downstairs and meet the girls.
OH MY GOD, I HAD MY FIRST DATE EVER!!
----------------------
That was the beginning with A.B. We dated for 2 ish years and I wouldn't change anything about it. At multiple times in my adult life, he's been there for me, and I for him. Through other relationships, tragedies, more relationships, job internships, tours, job offers and more - we've sought each other's advice and support.
I attended his wedding last year to an amazing, wonderful girl named C and they have begun a fantastic life together, and I hope to have them for a visit soon.
A.B. remains to this day, one of my dearest friends; he'll stay so for as long as we both have breath.
It's funny... when my folks first met my fiancee, they said he reminded them of A.B. I consider that to be a HUGE compliment, and a great honor. ;-)
I'm sure A.B. will pop up more in here... there are too many funny stories, like our first date, that simply shouldn't be left out.
But now, I've got to go make chocolate cherry cake, because my mum is telling me "You PROMISED and I DON'T SEE IT in the OVEN!"
Duty calls.
We were all sitting in the kitchen, perhaps the better (or worse, in my case) for wine; my paltry 1/4 of a glass on par with everyone else's start of their second.
"Well, let me put it simply and plainly: I just haven't gotten around to it. SO there! ," I smirked back at her, jumping right into the skin I wore as a teenager. Never mind that she's soon to be 67 and I'm 28: we still have difficulties keeping our adult pants on around one-another.
"What? What?!" bellowed my Dad, looking around innocently; his hearing aids were conveniently sitting on the dresser in the back bedroom.
"I SAID, SHE NEEDS TO CLEAN THE FAN. DAMMIT, WHY AREN'T YOUR HEARING AIDS IN?! You're doing this on purpose," my mother said dismissively, waving her hand at him.
Dad just gave her his trademark devilishly-toothy grin and stared at her with his eyes scrunched up.
He was, after all, pleased with himself for pissing her off.
J and I just looked meaningfully at each other, and completely failed at not laughing.
This is how my family works. We love each other, we pass judgement in a kindly way, and sweetly tell each other what we think someone should be doing, because that's what folks who love you do: boss you the heck around. (Hopefully J and I can change this tradition with our kiddos, but you never know....)
When I was little, my parents were amazing. They still are now, but as most everyone knows, there comes that time in a person's life, when their parents go from amazing to horrible, right in the middle. Usually it happens when a person becomes a teenager; all of a sudden, parents don't know as much as you thought they did. After all, no one tells kids or parents that there's no 'automatic knowing,' system to raising children or parenting.
I grew up in a large family. I say that, because though I don't technically have blood siblings, I still grew up with my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, great-aunts, great-uncles, second cousins and so forth, all around me.
You know that old adage, "It takes a village to raise a child?" Well, it's completely, utterly and complicatedly true in my opinion.
Getting back to what I was saying about this droop in the early beginnings of adult-hood in parental intelligence... or so it seems....
When I was 16, I had my first date. I asked him out. He was older than me. In fact, he was almost 18, and in the land of teenagers, there are miles between ages 16 and 18. Rivers, valleys and mountains too. However, I liked him, quite a lot. He was a theatre techie and we'd worked together on sets, lights - you name it. Late nights amongst amiable company make for swift ties in the theatre.
I'd been so terribly nervous to ask him out... I didn't even have his phone number and being as we were two grades apart (he a junior and myself a freshman... I have a November birthday which put me as the eldest in my grade, and he had a December birthday, so likewise for him) that day at school, I'd agonized over how to ask him.
It's not as though we had a free band or lunch together, let alone sometime for me to get him by himself to ask him to be my date.
We'd finished rehearsal and I was waiting to get picked up. I remember it was dark outside. I'd stayed later to do my homework in the library after we'd left the theatre; my dad was working late, and he was the one who was coming to get me.
I had this boy's his e-mail, because of theatre related things. I decided to e-mail him... he was a techie, he'd approve of that. I grabbed my bag and walked over to the computer lab.
Breeeeeaaaatheeee.... I'd been holding my breath. Can I really do this? I thought to myself. What if he thinks I'm a joke or something.... what if he just laughs at me? What if I'm too forward, asking him out instead of waiting for him to ask me? What if he tells all his friends about it and I get teased for the next two years straight?
I'd asked people out twice before. Once in 7th grade (horrible, horrible mistake) and once in 8th grade (he said yes to attending dance, but then wouldn't dance with me once we got there. It ended with me basically breaking his heart and asking to be friends because, well he wore the same cologne as my grandpa, he refused to dance and we just weren't getting anywhere). So, I had a classically 50/50 success rate.
Yes, I was that girl. To be honest, I didn't really care that I was the one being assertive; let's face it, if things got left up to boys who were my age, we'd all be punching the person we liked in the arm and telling them they had cooties to get the message across.
A.B. was older and *gasp* more mature than most guys, 17 year olds included. Yes, I'd e-mail him.... I waited for the computer to boot up.
Finally.
I logged in with my student ID and signed into my e-mail.
"Dear A.B.".... I began.
TAP, TAPPITY, TAP-TAP. KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK. I turned to look at whoever was annoyingly drumming on the glass of the computer lab; the end of the wall was the windowed-hallway in front of our school office-- and all the air left my lungs.
A.B. stood there grinning and waving at me, his bag slung to one shoulder.
OH. MY. GOD...! I thought to myself, having a completely girly moment and blushing from head to toe. Waving back at him I smiled sheepishly, in what I'm sure looked like an agonized manner. He's so tall. He looks so cute. He's SOOOOOO going to turn me down...
"Thank God he doesn't know what I'm doing," I said aloud through my smiling teeth. A.B. winked at me and mouthed "See you Monday," on the other side of the glass before turning and continuing out.
I let the air escape from my lungs. I'd been holding it again. Well, it's my birthday and he knows that, so maybe he won't shut me down on my birthday.
I finished the e-mail and pressed "send."
Well, it was done. There's no "unsend," button, so now it was a wait and see sort of thing. Besides, tomorrow I was having some friends over for my birthday. A bunch of high-school girls eating ice-cream and chocolate would help me forget that I'd just asked an upperclassman out.
For the dance. A big one. A formal. Called: The Crystal Ball.
I didn't much care for the name, but you know, nothing wrong with puns...
RIIIIING, RIIIIIIING, RIIIIING!!!
"H! PHONE! It's a BOY!" My dad shouted up the stairs. Giggling ensued madly.
"SHUT UP! He doesn't know you're all over here. NO LAUGHING! QUIET!" I screeched as I made my way over to the phone upstairs in my dad's office. I could barely reach the receiver as I was surrounded by my friends and they were all hysterical that I'd a) Asked A.B. out, b) Given him my phone number to receive his response, and c) That he was calling the night they were all here to bear-witness and able to console or celebrate with me after the verdict was stated.
"Hello?" I said, trying not to sound as though my heart was going to beat out of my chest.
"H? It's A.B." he said smoothly. His voice was so deep.
"Well, I figured." I said giggling in spite of myself. It's not like many boys call this number... ooh, did that sound snotty? CRAP!!!!!
"I got your e-mail..." he said. I detected a hint of a smile in his voice. Ok. Don't sound eager....
"Yeah? I hope it was okay that I sent it to you...." I said quietly. A giggle threatened to escape from several of the girls squeezed against me and the receiver.
"H, I'd love go to the dance with you," he said. OH HOLY HELL! He emphasized the word "love," he'd LOVE to go with me! YESSSSS!!!
Placing my hand over the receiver, I realized that all my girlfriends were staring at me bug-eyed with lolling expressions, hopping from one foot to the other; like true friends, they were just as excited as I was to find out whether he shot me down or not.
He said YES! I mouthed to them. It was too much. SQUEALS ensued. WOOHOOO's erupted from the girls, and despite my hand over the receiver, I KNEW he'd heard the symphony of whooping in the background.
"A.B.?," I could hear him chuckling. Well, if he'd thought he had no audience, now he knew.
"Yes. You have friends over don't you? Birthday right?"
"Yeah. So-- hold on---," I paused.
OK EVERYONE! Go downstairs and start the movie, I'll be down in a minute.
"Sorry about that," I murmured, "Um...."
"Well, since the dance is in February, and it's November now... we should hang out before then, huh?" he crooned.
"Sure!" I said brightly.
"We should also probably talk about the age difference between us. What do you think about it?" he asked seriously.
"I don't think it's an issue at all. If people don't like it, well, it's not their problem really, is it?" I countered.
"I feel the same way. It's no big deal," he said warmly.
"Great," I breathed back at him. God, I was turning into such a girly-girl. Ugh.
"Well, why don't we hang out tomorrow night? I've got to cover a SLAM poetry gathering in Burlington, would you like to come with me?" he offered.
"Yeah, that sounds great," I said.
"Super. It's a date then. Have a fun night," he said... there was that smile I could hear in his words again...
"Ok. Bye A.B. Thanks for calling," I said softly.
"Thanks for asking," he purred back. We hung up and I steeled myself to go downstairs and meet the girls.
OH MY GOD, I HAD MY FIRST DATE EVER!!
----------------------
That was the beginning with A.B. We dated for 2 ish years and I wouldn't change anything about it. At multiple times in my adult life, he's been there for me, and I for him. Through other relationships, tragedies, more relationships, job internships, tours, job offers and more - we've sought each other's advice and support.
I attended his wedding last year to an amazing, wonderful girl named C and they have begun a fantastic life together, and I hope to have them for a visit soon.
A.B. remains to this day, one of my dearest friends; he'll stay so for as long as we both have breath.
It's funny... when my folks first met my fiancee, they said he reminded them of A.B. I consider that to be a HUGE compliment, and a great honor. ;-)
I'm sure A.B. will pop up more in here... there are too many funny stories, like our first date, that simply shouldn't be left out.
But now, I've got to go make chocolate cherry cake, because my mum is telling me "You PROMISED and I DON'T SEE IT in the OVEN!"
Duty calls.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Feel the Floor...
I trudged down the concrete path; picking my way carefully so as not to slip down the steep, winding sidewalk. The icy wind cut into my cheeks, nearly blowing off my hat and sneaking it's sharp, cold fingers through the folds of my scarf. The trees whipping and groaning as the wind berated them about.
Finally, the steely-gray-blue door came into focus through my tear-frozen eyes. Struggling with it's weight, I pulled mightily and slipped inside.
BLAM! The wind slammed the door behind me. Warm air engulfed me as I stepped into the sanctuary of the building. Walking down the narrow dark hallway, over the squishy mats, I pulled open the second blue door with the slit of a window - crosshatching metal glinted inside the glass.
With a deep sigh, I felt my body lift up, the space of the studio wrapped around me and exploded pleasantly, expanding my energy like a delicious airy ocean, the ceiling feeling miles above, the blue cold air shining through the skylights; but it was warm in here.
Dropping my bag, I walked over to the music cabinet.
"Damn," I whispered to myself.
It was locked. I'd have to go upstairs.
Well no matter, the second studio was still high and open - a solitude of sweet space, somewhere I could move by myself without fear of interruption.
I went back out through the door and up the creeky, too-narrow stairs I'd passed on my left as I came in. Feeling another wave of freedom, I breathed deeply as the floor level passed my eye, hip, and I finally found myself standing at the end of the studio, the mirrors stretched out to my right along the edge of the wall, the marley light not dark in this space; the same skylight style windows cascading grey, cold light above to the left.
Dropping my bag on the chair by the music cabinet and slipping off my shoes so the marley would be protected, I stepped sock-footed toes first, my feet arching deliciously, onto the floor. Pulling out the permanent fixture of the old boom-box from under the shelf, I dug through my bag and found the disc I was searching for.
I slipped the CD into the chamber.
Click. Cccsh, cccsh, cccsh, whiirrrrrrrr... the music, playing softly, began to fill the room with the warm, lilting, rich sounds of the cello.
I threw off my winter gear and placed my shoes on top of my coat. I slid to the floor and closed my eyes, leaning back so I could feel the flatness of the wood covered marley against my arching, extending and flexing, relaxing spine.
Streeeeetch... arms up over my head, feet pointed down extending the line of energy, I felt my ribs pull and separate gently; my muscles in delight at the new spread and opening, but twitchy as well. I kept breathing... in and out... all the time feeling the floor.
Firm pressure against my body; hard, soft, firm, the floor was support, reminding my muscles to flex and release; to build and hold the scaffolding of my bones, to keep my movements supple and strong and light or heavy, but never too loose.... still...
To let go. To begin spinning and dropping, throwing my body around-- that was part of it too. The studio was only place I could release everything. The only space in which I could freely escape my emotions and send them out of myself into the space with the sound of the music and the rush of motion. No matter what was going on in the world of higher education: exams, expectations and interactions; here was safety.
I began organically to move; closing my eyes to feel the vibrations of the notes and chords in my body; the cello glided along my frame. My organs and tissues were drinking in the key signature; the mood of the piece flooding into my bloodstream, filling my muscles and lungs with it's essence. The rhythmic bowing and the time signature was tapping through my bones, I could feel it's persistence in my fingers, toes and jaw, even my pelvis.
I could also physically feel my insistent need for motion- I had to move, I had to open myself to the music and fling it out through my body.
Not yet though... just breathe... feel your energy's hyperactivity rushing around your system and restrain it until you're warm. Keep the excitement and feel it fill you to the core.
The dance floor had always been my sounding board. I could leap here. I could turn. I could slide and thrust and flow and feel my strength and motions contract and release. I could put all of myself into the movement without fear, without judgement: This was no class. No constricted emphasis on strength, specific motion, or complete training control; here I could take all that discipline and set it free!
I could move with no rules.
This was no ballet, or jazz instruction, no pure tap, no swing, no ballroom, no hip-hop, no modern, nor lyrical... this was me.
Mine.
This space was the place to re-claim my soul, feel my body and move it. No where else in the world did I have such creativity as this; the deep and pure pleasure of feeling myself in my system and the utter delight of moving however I might for the expectation of No. One. Else.
Here, it didn't matter that my heart had been broken. That I couldn't sleep because of the gaping, tearing hole in my chest. That the guy I really, truly loved had broken my trust. It didn't matter that I felt angry with myself for swallowing lies and being nice about every injustice I was feeling. Here it didn't matter that I had to go about my studying, make the grade, write a thesis, deal with interdepartmental spats. Here it didn't matter that I felt alone and misjudged and confused about what the hell I was doing at University. Here it didn't matter that I was only allowed to do the work they wanted me to do; instead of what I knew I was capable of. Here I had to please no one. Not even myself, because this was not a time for self-judgement.
R, C and K had told me to go to the studio. Reminded me that I could take myself back. Take back the effort and energy that I was throwing into my classes and at my professors and give it back to myself.
R, C and K were the BEST. ROOMMATES. EVER. As well as being incredible, amazing, intelligent, understanding and compassionate women. They still are...
But right then: I wasn't in class. I wasn't on stage. I wasn't presenting, performing or working for anyone.
The smell of the dust and leather and metal and wood hit me. Here was salvation.
The floor was solely mine. I could dance for the mirrors, the light, the windows, the bricks, the air itself; perhaps a few squirrels would stop to watch me. No fellow-students.
The music changed; the rhythm shifting to a low pulse - sharp, steady, like blood pumping in my ears.
I began to dance, and so set myself free.
Finally, the steely-gray-blue door came into focus through my tear-frozen eyes. Struggling with it's weight, I pulled mightily and slipped inside.
BLAM! The wind slammed the door behind me. Warm air engulfed me as I stepped into the sanctuary of the building. Walking down the narrow dark hallway, over the squishy mats, I pulled open the second blue door with the slit of a window - crosshatching metal glinted inside the glass.
With a deep sigh, I felt my body lift up, the space of the studio wrapped around me and exploded pleasantly, expanding my energy like a delicious airy ocean, the ceiling feeling miles above, the blue cold air shining through the skylights; but it was warm in here.
Dropping my bag, I walked over to the music cabinet.
"Damn," I whispered to myself.
It was locked. I'd have to go upstairs.
Well no matter, the second studio was still high and open - a solitude of sweet space, somewhere I could move by myself without fear of interruption.
I went back out through the door and up the creeky, too-narrow stairs I'd passed on my left as I came in. Feeling another wave of freedom, I breathed deeply as the floor level passed my eye, hip, and I finally found myself standing at the end of the studio, the mirrors stretched out to my right along the edge of the wall, the marley light not dark in this space; the same skylight style windows cascading grey, cold light above to the left.
Dropping my bag on the chair by the music cabinet and slipping off my shoes so the marley would be protected, I stepped sock-footed toes first, my feet arching deliciously, onto the floor. Pulling out the permanent fixture of the old boom-box from under the shelf, I dug through my bag and found the disc I was searching for.
I slipped the CD into the chamber.
Click. Cccsh, cccsh, cccsh, whiirrrrrrrr... the music, playing softly, began to fill the room with the warm, lilting, rich sounds of the cello.
I threw off my winter gear and placed my shoes on top of my coat. I slid to the floor and closed my eyes, leaning back so I could feel the flatness of the wood covered marley against my arching, extending and flexing, relaxing spine.
Streeeeetch... arms up over my head, feet pointed down extending the line of energy, I felt my ribs pull and separate gently; my muscles in delight at the new spread and opening, but twitchy as well. I kept breathing... in and out... all the time feeling the floor.
Firm pressure against my body; hard, soft, firm, the floor was support, reminding my muscles to flex and release; to build and hold the scaffolding of my bones, to keep my movements supple and strong and light or heavy, but never too loose.... still...
To let go. To begin spinning and dropping, throwing my body around-- that was part of it too. The studio was only place I could release everything. The only space in which I could freely escape my emotions and send them out of myself into the space with the sound of the music and the rush of motion. No matter what was going on in the world of higher education: exams, expectations and interactions; here was safety.
I began organically to move; closing my eyes to feel the vibrations of the notes and chords in my body; the cello glided along my frame. My organs and tissues were drinking in the key signature; the mood of the piece flooding into my bloodstream, filling my muscles and lungs with it's essence. The rhythmic bowing and the time signature was tapping through my bones, I could feel it's persistence in my fingers, toes and jaw, even my pelvis.
I could also physically feel my insistent need for motion- I had to move, I had to open myself to the music and fling it out through my body.
Not yet though... just breathe... feel your energy's hyperactivity rushing around your system and restrain it until you're warm. Keep the excitement and feel it fill you to the core.
The dance floor had always been my sounding board. I could leap here. I could turn. I could slide and thrust and flow and feel my strength and motions contract and release. I could put all of myself into the movement without fear, without judgement: This was no class. No constricted emphasis on strength, specific motion, or complete training control; here I could take all that discipline and set it free!
I could move with no rules.
This was no ballet, or jazz instruction, no pure tap, no swing, no ballroom, no hip-hop, no modern, nor lyrical... this was me.
Mine.
This space was the place to re-claim my soul, feel my body and move it. No where else in the world did I have such creativity as this; the deep and pure pleasure of feeling myself in my system and the utter delight of moving however I might for the expectation of No. One. Else.
Here, it didn't matter that my heart had been broken. That I couldn't sleep because of the gaping, tearing hole in my chest. That the guy I really, truly loved had broken my trust. It didn't matter that I felt angry with myself for swallowing lies and being nice about every injustice I was feeling. Here it didn't matter that I had to go about my studying, make the grade, write a thesis, deal with interdepartmental spats. Here it didn't matter that I felt alone and misjudged and confused about what the hell I was doing at University. Here it didn't matter that I was only allowed to do the work they wanted me to do; instead of what I knew I was capable of. Here I had to please no one. Not even myself, because this was not a time for self-judgement.
R, C and K had told me to go to the studio. Reminded me that I could take myself back. Take back the effort and energy that I was throwing into my classes and at my professors and give it back to myself.
R, C and K were the BEST. ROOMMATES. EVER. As well as being incredible, amazing, intelligent, understanding and compassionate women. They still are...
But right then: I wasn't in class. I wasn't on stage. I wasn't presenting, performing or working for anyone.
The smell of the dust and leather and metal and wood hit me. Here was salvation.
The floor was solely mine. I could dance for the mirrors, the light, the windows, the bricks, the air itself; perhaps a few squirrels would stop to watch me. No fellow-students.
The music changed; the rhythm shifting to a low pulse - sharp, steady, like blood pumping in my ears.
I began to dance, and so set myself free.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
It's Fall Again... No, Wait... Just February in CO.
WhhhhhhHHHHHHSHHHHHSSSSSSHSHHSHSHSHSHSHSHOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooo
The wind began a little bluster, which grew into a nice gust and a whisper of a winter gone-by (it's cheeks puffing slightly at the effort) swept through the crinkly, spindly branches of the buck naked trees.
A small pile of dirty, snowy leaves shivered and shuddered in it's wake; they'd be blown about if they weren't icily stuck to the frost. Leaves always want to be blown about, they're made to catch the wind, sun and rain, like delicate little energy panels that flutter.
Outside the air smelled musty, smoky and cold; like a kitchen hours after bacon has been fried-- the old smell of past things still lingers on the breeze, waiting, inevitably to return.
The frying pan shall again sizzle fat and melt butter,
The house will again smell of succulent food,
The oven shall bake sweet and savory pastry again,
The clock shall again tick comfortingly the hours, minutes and seconds as they rush by,
The people will gather, part, gather and part again,
The animals will again snuggle gently for warmth; sleeping through the cold if they can,
The leaves will burst with buds into flower, then dance until they can no longer feel the beat of the music and gasping for breath that will not come, they'll shrink, lose their succulence and become wisps of their former selves, only to at last take the final swirling leap to the ground below... all, over, again.
This morning, the smell of apples frying delicately in butter filled our house; sweet, cidery perfume mingling with the salty suggestive smell of onions carmelizing... also in butter.
Butter, my friends, is delicious.
Having been a vegan for 3 years, and a vegetarian previously (for around 15 or so) I once eschewed butter; this golden, salty, sweet, full-flavored fat was stolen from cows and I could not abide eating it, while the little calves were put on formula... or worse.
Today though, I am not going to talk about dietary agendas, revelations, convictions or what is morally right and wrong for me as an individual; there's too much sadness, struggle and difficulty in residence there at the moment.
Right now, I'm going to talk about the comfort of cooking, the excitement of preparation and in short: the ecstasy of food.
We must eat to live. It is a necessary component of being a living, breathing, creature. In my opinion, we need these basic elements to survive:
Shelter.
Water.
Love.
Food.
Elimination.
Understanding.
Expression.
Shelter: I live in a house built in 1903, with one normally pleasant, elderly ghost of a woman who lived here previously.
Water: I don't drink as much as I should, but I drink a lot more than I used to.
Love: I give it and receive it as much as possible from people, animals and the universe.
Food: I cook. Every. Single. Day. Food is one of the greatest joys of life - sustenance, pleasure, excitement, interest, work and imagination are all filled and boundless within food.
Elimination: Everybody Poops. Go read the book of the same title.
Understanding: Without understanding, there can be no acceptance or sharing - not of oneself, not of other people, not of anything. Misunderstanding lines up with frustration, which borders anger, which does not beget goodwill or respect.
Expression: Holding energy in changes the path it moves along. Holding anything, will alter the state it's in; as well as the state of the container.
These things may seem extraneous from time to time, but I'm willing to bet that everyone and everything needs them to survive.
I first began to cook when I was four. I believe I ended up with flour all over myself, the kitchen, and the adults trying to teach me how to do whatever we were doing. Each memory I have of helping to prepare some meal or tasty-tid-bit is a LOVELY, damn good memory.
I wish I could remember exactly every meal. Instead, I can recall the exact flavours of the dishes I loved - but I've no idea the number of times I've tasted them.
I also remember meals, snacks and times with food that were awful - I've spoken about this before - bad mood = bad food. Say it with me, "BAD MOOD EQUALS BAD FOOD!"
Good job. (I'm a firm believer in positive reinforcement.)
Cooking is something that is constant in life, though most people don't cook to save themselves the tire, hassle, mess and above all, time. We're taught that time = money, and no one has the time to make a pie-crust from scratch (Flour, water, fat, salt) let alone make biscuits, cookies, cakes, casseroles, salads, stews or really, any dish that requires even a small amount of chopping, mixing or stirring. People like to take something, zap it in the microwave and eat it. Quickly. TV dinners are still extremely popular, as are frozen bagged meals.
"If you can boil water, you can make this!"
"Just add water, empty the packet contents into the pan, and VOILA! INSTANT- DINNER!"
"Cook on high for 2 minutes. Turn. Cook an additional 2 minutes. Stir. Let cool. Enjoy!"
This is NOT cooking.
GASP! Can she SAY that? Is that true? I'm adding a heating element to edible things, that's cooking, isn't it?
No. It isn't. Don't try to pretend that pushing a button on a microwave, or just because you've found you're capable of turning on the oven or the burner (good job) is cooking. It. Is. NOT.
Cooking means taking basic ingredients (read, things you KNOW are food - fruits, vegetables, fats, herbs, spices and proteins) and preparing, seasoning and combining together with a heated or non heated element that results in something delicious from SCRATCH that will nourish your body, mind, soul and spirit.
Cooking is not adding a flavor packet to a something boiling in a pot of water. It just isn't.
Julia Child is AMAZING. I love the book (as well as the movie) of "Julie and Julia." It's good stuff. However, most of us probably couldn't follow a recipe in "Mastering the Art of French Cooking." Most of us have difficulty following the high-altitude instructions (oh wait, usually there AREN'T ANY) on a box of noodles.
I am blessed, because I grew up in a family where cooking was taken for granted. We cooked most meals, special occasion foods, and even basic bread ourselves. It wasn't until my mom got extremely busy with her work, that we had the occasional frozen entree dinner, and believe me it did NOT taste like my mom's REAL version.
In this day and age, with everything labeled "HEALTHY," and assigned numbers for it's nutritional content, we forget what food really is. Food is grown, not poofed into existence. Things like popcorn, tortilla chips and potato chips can all be made ridiculously easily at home, but we don't have the time.
Well, if you end up stuck with a bunch of crappy food allergies, you MAKE the time.
I had asthma until I was about 25 years old. I was born almost a full 3 months early and they told my folks I'd be the kid who had immune deficiencies my whole life; that I'd be on allergy meds, steroid creams and inhalers and all of that stuff. That my system "would never work properly." Well, it's not true. I have FOOD allergies. Rash causing, sniffles inducing, coughing, puking, sneezing, itchy, hive-y, pimply, ASTHMA triggering food allergies.
Now I'm dealing not only with the food allergies, but the effects of 25 years of corticosteroids and allergy drugs that were forced into my system. Suppress, suppress, suppress...
I don't have asthma any more. I rarely have eczema, hives, sneezing or coughing fits (unless I have a legitimate cold, or come in contact with mold, dust-mites or something I'm allergic to that was in the food I ate).
FOOD IS IMPORTANT.
Sometimes I cry about my lot in life; I'm sure we all do from time to time. It's part of being a person with feelings. I occasionally become angry with my body, with all it's high-maintenance B.S., but the truth of the matter is, it's me. It's my body and I have to take care of it and love it, and trust it to somehow communicate to my consciousness what's going on inside it.
I have been forced to know, explore and understand every single thing that goes into my mouth. If I don't pay attention, I have unpleasant reactions, and my body punishes me for deliberately thwarting what it's told me it needs.
Life isn't about shortcuts. Food shouldn't be short-changed or played around with (unless it's experimenting with a new ingredient or recipe). What we eat, where it comes from, whether it's sustainable, fair-trade, humanely raised and harvested: THESE ARE IMPORTANT.
Everyone needs to COOK more and UNDERSTAND more about where their ingredients come from.
A roommate of mine used to subscribe to cable T.V. (we don't have a T.V. at home anymore) and I used to watch the Food Network. I love the Food Network. It's fun to watch. However, I once saw an episode of a "cooking show," by accident (I don't like the way this female does her show --- I won't name names, but her first and last names start with the same letter and rhyme with Achel A).
She was "teaching," people how to "cook," by taking pre-made, frozen foodstuffs and baking them in the oven; to go along with boiling frozen peas. She was speaking slowly and smiling at the camera, exclaiming things in her raspy, abrasive voice and cheerfully spreading out the "food," on the cookie sheet.
This is utter and complete crap. I give her kudos for doing what she believes in, but clearly, I beg to differ on her definition of cooking.
Firstly, boiling peas is defrosting them so they're edible. It's not cooking. It's step one to making a meal with a side dish of peas, or to adding peas to a soup or other dish. Secondly, taking something store-bought and warming it in your oven is not cooking. If people at home (watching the show) don't know how to boil water and turn their oven on, then the state of our food preparation system is in deeper trouble than I thought.
This "chef," thinks that quick frozen meals are cooking? I think NOT. How someone can get paid for following instructions on the back of the bag for a quick fix meal, is beyond me. I find it insulting to my intelligence, and I think that shows such as this one, touting basic re-heating methods as cooking are pathetic and dreadful.
Teach people the trick to dicing onions! How to julienne carrots! How to peel garlic! How to season things properly! About the smoke points of oils and fats! Which pan to use for what! The importance of tasting ingredients from start to finish!
Those things are important. Not how to gosh darn defrost ready-made, preservative laden, trans-fatty, highly processed "food." That stuff shouldn't even pass for food. If you look at a label and you can't pronounce the ingredients, put it back.
Buy some veggies, sea salt, protein and fat and COOK dammit!
It does NOT take that much time. Maybe an extra 2 minutes to chop. You're still throwing it into a warming/hot skillet/pot/pan. It will taste better, it's better FOR your body, and it's FUN!
You are what you eat, and all that entails. Give your body food. Give it the basics. Don't muck around with "I don't have time," this and "it's too complicated," that. Your body is the most important resource you have- your very LIFE depends on it.
So treat it well, take it home and cook it dinner to show it how much you care. Your body is your "one and only," after all.
The wind began a little bluster, which grew into a nice gust and a whisper of a winter gone-by (it's cheeks puffing slightly at the effort) swept through the crinkly, spindly branches of the buck naked trees.
A small pile of dirty, snowy leaves shivered and shuddered in it's wake; they'd be blown about if they weren't icily stuck to the frost. Leaves always want to be blown about, they're made to catch the wind, sun and rain, like delicate little energy panels that flutter.
Outside the air smelled musty, smoky and cold; like a kitchen hours after bacon has been fried-- the old smell of past things still lingers on the breeze, waiting, inevitably to return.
The frying pan shall again sizzle fat and melt butter,
The house will again smell of succulent food,
The oven shall bake sweet and savory pastry again,
The clock shall again tick comfortingly the hours, minutes and seconds as they rush by,
The people will gather, part, gather and part again,
The animals will again snuggle gently for warmth; sleeping through the cold if they can,
The leaves will burst with buds into flower, then dance until they can no longer feel the beat of the music and gasping for breath that will not come, they'll shrink, lose their succulence and become wisps of their former selves, only to at last take the final swirling leap to the ground below... all, over, again.
This morning, the smell of apples frying delicately in butter filled our house; sweet, cidery perfume mingling with the salty suggestive smell of onions carmelizing... also in butter.
Butter, my friends, is delicious.
Having been a vegan for 3 years, and a vegetarian previously (for around 15 or so) I once eschewed butter; this golden, salty, sweet, full-flavored fat was stolen from cows and I could not abide eating it, while the little calves were put on formula... or worse.
Today though, I am not going to talk about dietary agendas, revelations, convictions or what is morally right and wrong for me as an individual; there's too much sadness, struggle and difficulty in residence there at the moment.
Right now, I'm going to talk about the comfort of cooking, the excitement of preparation and in short: the ecstasy of food.
We must eat to live. It is a necessary component of being a living, breathing, creature. In my opinion, we need these basic elements to survive:
Shelter.
Water.
Love.
Food.
Elimination.
Understanding.
Expression.
Shelter: I live in a house built in 1903, with one normally pleasant, elderly ghost of a woman who lived here previously.
Water: I don't drink as much as I should, but I drink a lot more than I used to.
Love: I give it and receive it as much as possible from people, animals and the universe.
Food: I cook. Every. Single. Day. Food is one of the greatest joys of life - sustenance, pleasure, excitement, interest, work and imagination are all filled and boundless within food.
Elimination: Everybody Poops. Go read the book of the same title.
Understanding: Without understanding, there can be no acceptance or sharing - not of oneself, not of other people, not of anything. Misunderstanding lines up with frustration, which borders anger, which does not beget goodwill or respect.
Expression: Holding energy in changes the path it moves along. Holding anything, will alter the state it's in; as well as the state of the container.
These things may seem extraneous from time to time, but I'm willing to bet that everyone and everything needs them to survive.
I first began to cook when I was four. I believe I ended up with flour all over myself, the kitchen, and the adults trying to teach me how to do whatever we were doing. Each memory I have of helping to prepare some meal or tasty-tid-bit is a LOVELY, damn good memory.
I wish I could remember exactly every meal. Instead, I can recall the exact flavours of the dishes I loved - but I've no idea the number of times I've tasted them.
I also remember meals, snacks and times with food that were awful - I've spoken about this before - bad mood = bad food. Say it with me, "BAD MOOD EQUALS BAD FOOD!"
Good job. (I'm a firm believer in positive reinforcement.)
Cooking is something that is constant in life, though most people don't cook to save themselves the tire, hassle, mess and above all, time. We're taught that time = money, and no one has the time to make a pie-crust from scratch (Flour, water, fat, salt) let alone make biscuits, cookies, cakes, casseroles, salads, stews or really, any dish that requires even a small amount of chopping, mixing or stirring. People like to take something, zap it in the microwave and eat it. Quickly. TV dinners are still extremely popular, as are frozen bagged meals.
"If you can boil water, you can make this!"
"Just add water, empty the packet contents into the pan, and VOILA! INSTANT- DINNER!"
"Cook on high for 2 minutes. Turn. Cook an additional 2 minutes. Stir. Let cool. Enjoy!"
This is NOT cooking.
GASP! Can she SAY that? Is that true? I'm adding a heating element to edible things, that's cooking, isn't it?
No. It isn't. Don't try to pretend that pushing a button on a microwave, or just because you've found you're capable of turning on the oven or the burner (good job) is cooking. It. Is. NOT.
Cooking means taking basic ingredients (read, things you KNOW are food - fruits, vegetables, fats, herbs, spices and proteins) and preparing, seasoning and combining together with a heated or non heated element that results in something delicious from SCRATCH that will nourish your body, mind, soul and spirit.
Cooking is not adding a flavor packet to a something boiling in a pot of water. It just isn't.
Julia Child is AMAZING. I love the book (as well as the movie) of "Julie and Julia." It's good stuff. However, most of us probably couldn't follow a recipe in "Mastering the Art of French Cooking." Most of us have difficulty following the high-altitude instructions (oh wait, usually there AREN'T ANY) on a box of noodles.
I am blessed, because I grew up in a family where cooking was taken for granted. We cooked most meals, special occasion foods, and even basic bread ourselves. It wasn't until my mom got extremely busy with her work, that we had the occasional frozen entree dinner, and believe me it did NOT taste like my mom's REAL version.
In this day and age, with everything labeled "HEALTHY," and assigned numbers for it's nutritional content, we forget what food really is. Food is grown, not poofed into existence. Things like popcorn, tortilla chips and potato chips can all be made ridiculously easily at home, but we don't have the time.
Well, if you end up stuck with a bunch of crappy food allergies, you MAKE the time.
I had asthma until I was about 25 years old. I was born almost a full 3 months early and they told my folks I'd be the kid who had immune deficiencies my whole life; that I'd be on allergy meds, steroid creams and inhalers and all of that stuff. That my system "would never work properly." Well, it's not true. I have FOOD allergies. Rash causing, sniffles inducing, coughing, puking, sneezing, itchy, hive-y, pimply, ASTHMA triggering food allergies.
Now I'm dealing not only with the food allergies, but the effects of 25 years of corticosteroids and allergy drugs that were forced into my system. Suppress, suppress, suppress...
I don't have asthma any more. I rarely have eczema, hives, sneezing or coughing fits (unless I have a legitimate cold, or come in contact with mold, dust-mites or something I'm allergic to that was in the food I ate).
FOOD IS IMPORTANT.
Sometimes I cry about my lot in life; I'm sure we all do from time to time. It's part of being a person with feelings. I occasionally become angry with my body, with all it's high-maintenance B.S., but the truth of the matter is, it's me. It's my body and I have to take care of it and love it, and trust it to somehow communicate to my consciousness what's going on inside it.
I have been forced to know, explore and understand every single thing that goes into my mouth. If I don't pay attention, I have unpleasant reactions, and my body punishes me for deliberately thwarting what it's told me it needs.
Life isn't about shortcuts. Food shouldn't be short-changed or played around with (unless it's experimenting with a new ingredient or recipe). What we eat, where it comes from, whether it's sustainable, fair-trade, humanely raised and harvested: THESE ARE IMPORTANT.
Everyone needs to COOK more and UNDERSTAND more about where their ingredients come from.
A roommate of mine used to subscribe to cable T.V. (we don't have a T.V. at home anymore) and I used to watch the Food Network. I love the Food Network. It's fun to watch. However, I once saw an episode of a "cooking show," by accident (I don't like the way this female does her show --- I won't name names, but her first and last names start with the same letter and rhyme with Achel A).
She was "teaching," people how to "cook," by taking pre-made, frozen foodstuffs and baking them in the oven; to go along with boiling frozen peas. She was speaking slowly and smiling at the camera, exclaiming things in her raspy, abrasive voice and cheerfully spreading out the "food," on the cookie sheet.
This is utter and complete crap. I give her kudos for doing what she believes in, but clearly, I beg to differ on her definition of cooking.
Firstly, boiling peas is defrosting them so they're edible. It's not cooking. It's step one to making a meal with a side dish of peas, or to adding peas to a soup or other dish. Secondly, taking something store-bought and warming it in your oven is not cooking. If people at home (watching the show) don't know how to boil water and turn their oven on, then the state of our food preparation system is in deeper trouble than I thought.
This "chef," thinks that quick frozen meals are cooking? I think NOT. How someone can get paid for following instructions on the back of the bag for a quick fix meal, is beyond me. I find it insulting to my intelligence, and I think that shows such as this one, touting basic re-heating methods as cooking are pathetic and dreadful.
Teach people the trick to dicing onions! How to julienne carrots! How to peel garlic! How to season things properly! About the smoke points of oils and fats! Which pan to use for what! The importance of tasting ingredients from start to finish!
Those things are important. Not how to gosh darn defrost ready-made, preservative laden, trans-fatty, highly processed "food." That stuff shouldn't even pass for food. If you look at a label and you can't pronounce the ingredients, put it back.
Buy some veggies, sea salt, protein and fat and COOK dammit!
It does NOT take that much time. Maybe an extra 2 minutes to chop. You're still throwing it into a warming/hot skillet/pot/pan. It will taste better, it's better FOR your body, and it's FUN!
You are what you eat, and all that entails. Give your body food. Give it the basics. Don't muck around with "I don't have time," this and "it's too complicated," that. Your body is the most important resource you have- your very LIFE depends on it.
So treat it well, take it home and cook it dinner to show it how much you care. Your body is your "one and only," after all.
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